Vendetta
by The Dramatic Sneeze
Summary: Shortly after his mentor's demise, Mitchell and his supernatural flatmates are taken captive by a vampire-hunting organization with a less-literal thirst for blood. With lives so consumed with monsters, they sometimes forget what humans can do. (Violence and Non-con.)
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Disclaimed._

_Warnings for this chapter: Torture, graphic violence, character injury... __My goal is to make you cry by the final chapter._

_A/N: I've aimed to make this a bit fast-paced to avoid my personal downfall of never finishing fics. I haven't yet decided if it will be a oneshot or not, feel free to weigh in. I'd love opinions on how well it worked out because I'm horrible with self assessment._

_This is just slightly AU, as it takes place soon after Mitchell is staked and George attacks Herrick, but they are still living at their home in Bristol. Other than that, all of series one should be canon._

_Enjoy, and let me know what you think!_

* * *

Mitchell used to be fond of situations like these.

Except in the past, he'd be the one _outside_ the cage.

It's some sort of mining tunnel. Abandoned, until now, at least. The people who have taken him have utilized it, transformed it into their own personal torture chamber. The smeared blood spatter on the walls tells him he isn't the first they've poached. There's evidence of vampires but none of any other supernatural entity and for that Mitchell isn't sure whether to be grateful or not.

The only relief Mitchell has is the small shift in light from down the tunnel every twelve hours and he knows it isn't artificial because the hue is too_ hopeful_. It's the one thing that's been reminding him of the existence of the world outside, kept him grounded instead of ripping his hair out and biting his fingernails to bloody stumps.

With Herrick gone, they'd lulled themselves into a false sense of security. Annie and George, he can understand. In all his years, he should have fucking _known_ there were other monsters out there.

There was a time when Mitchell had found himself in a similar predicament with a rival group of vampires, who had been grappling for control of the small Irish town he'd been inhabiting at the time. The biggest difference is that he had been visited much more often by has captors. Not that these encounters were something he looked forward to, but not a single soul has shown themselves and it's unnerving to him.

Mitchell does not like being ignored.

All he can do to pass the time is draw pictures in the dirt and try not to pick at the scab over his chest where a broken chair leg made it's home not two weeks ago. Besides that, he tries not to think about the possibility that there's no one coming for him. That they've simply left him here to starve, to rot.

It isn't the most pleasant of thoughts, so instead he thinks about his flatmates and replays episodes of_ The Real Hustle_ in his head.

But after a while, things change. It's when George and Annie are both thrown into the cage next to him.

It takes George a while to wake up and Mitchell's head has been poised to explode in that time. When Annie gathers her bearings, she sheepishly informs him that their rescue mission hadn't gone as planned.

Simultaneously, he wants to scream at them for their idiocy and embrace them senseless.

Despite their failed attempt, Mitchell will give them credit for doing their homework. They tell him a bit about the organization that is holding them and he's not sure if good or bad thing that he's never heard of them. Regardless, they're a force to be reckoned with if they can kidnap a cold predator with a century's worth of experience under his belt without so much as a single casualty.

It's a lot of time they have on their hands and Annie isn't a fan of silence. They listen to her babble as George's gaze shifts to him constantly with something akin to fear and expectancy. Mitchell wants to slap the expression right off of his face_._ The vampire knows he deserves it, he knows it's his all his fault and George just wants his friend to save them like he always does. Like they've learned to do for each other. Except Mitchell is at just as much of a loss and he isn't going to give these monsters the satisfaction of showing his uncertainty.

In fact, Mitchell wouldn't be so afraid if the others weren't involved, he would just be _angry_. But George is near-helpless if it's not his time of the month and Annie is more clumsy and lethargic than she can remember since her death. What should be their secret weapon is rendered useless as she can't seem to find the energy to utilize her new abilities. Mitchell assumes they're burning sage in some part of the tunnel, or some similar supernatural precaution.

Basically, they're all fucked, but that's never stopped them before.

George is more distraught with the logic of it than the actual situation.

"Who has time to build a dungeon nowadays, anyway?"

After the arrival of his friends, their captors are a much more common sight. They offer adequate food and water to George, of which he is skeptical at first. The meal sits cold for a day or so before the man rolls his eyes and takes a bite of the food as proof of it's safety. It's obvious that Annie doesn't need the nourishment but Mitchell knows they're withholding it from him purposely. It's nothing he can't handle, at least for now.

The head of the organization pays them a visit, and he isn't what Mitchell had conjured in his imagination. Alan, he's called, and he's a tall man with short hair, a Scottish accent and a square jaw. There's no visibly defining characteristics about him, he looks_ normal._

When the man enters his cell, Mitchell's eyes flicker black and his bears his fangs in hostility. Annie shuts her eyes as he lunges for the kill and peeks out with the loud _click-clack_ and the lack of blood sloshing to the floor.

George is stone still next to her, a horrified gleam in his wide eyes. When she tilts left and gasps when she sees the wing-man with a gun aimed at his head from outside the cell. Mitchell looks between the men warily, irises materializing within the dark spheres in a sign of silent surrender because they _know_ there are silver bullets in that weapon.

When Mitchell steps away, there is a brief exchange of sarcastic pleasantries and insulting remarks before the man leaves without so much as a second glance. They hear little from their captors, but from here on out, there is never a solitary visitor. Most often, it's one person to deliver the food and throw insults and one to aim the gun at George's head.

Surprisingly, they find themselves more bored than anything else. They play twenty questions and would you rather. They learn how George broke his nose by running into a flagpole when he was twelve. They learn how how Annie would rather have an endless supply of tea than a puppy who stayed young and cute forever because she really isn't much of a dog person. They learn that Mitchell was friends with Winston Churchill for a short period and laugh when he tries to convince them he was the true source for a number of quotes.

_"Once in a while you will stumble upon the truth but most of us manage to pick ourselves up and hurry along as if nothing had happened."_

A few days go by. Mitchell's stomach growls fiercely and when George attempts to stealthily pass him a roll of bread, he is swiftly rewarded with a backhand to the face by the man watching from the shadows of the opposite wall. Another day, and Annie has gained enough energy to teleport small amounts of food through the bars to Mitchell's stifling hands in the next cell. It isn't much, but it's enough to ebb the stabbing hunger.

Well, one kind of hunger.

Water is a whole different aspect. She tries and tries, but all her attempts ever amount to are small puddles of mud. The frustration unnerves her and Mitchell wipes the tears from her eyes through the bars when she finally breaks down. The vampire tells her it's alright, that he doesn't need it yet and he'll get along fine with just the food for now. Mitchell reassures her that their current living arrangement is only temporary and Annie nods hopefully, tears dripping down and soaking into the knit fabric of his gloves.

He's glad she'd had her episode, because he'd needed the reminder as well.

That night, the three lean against each other through the bars in desperate attempt at contact. Mitchell and Annie lean against one another, despite the uncomfortable presence of the iron beams between them. One hand grips hers, and the other is clasped tightly inside George's large palm. The werewolf's lays his head in Annie's lap and his opposite hand rests on Mitchell's leg because it's all he can really manage while still being in a position of comfort. They sleep this way each consecutive night.

A man arrives one morning and offers Mitchell water that he's sure is laced with fresh blood.

Mitchell tells him to go to hell and spits on his shoes.

There's no surefire way to keep track of the days because there's nothing sharp enough to scratch the walls with, and George is slightly disappointed because he has always wanted to do that. Well, minus the "_kidnapped_" aspect. However, the physical warnings of George's inevitable special time were beginning to become difficult to ignore. After a week or so of stressed pacing and hurried strategics, George has fallen into a pit of despair at the realization that they've most likely brought him here as a time bomb. It's hard for Mitchell to accept, despite his old age because it's never been much of an issue before.

This time, it's inevitable and he's _scared_.

The night George feels the beast brewing deep in his gut, the hunters arrive with a heavy chain leash and a mass of poultry tied to a piece of rope. They take George deeper into the tunnel when the transformations begin.

It's late, and they're just recovering from the pained screams of their mate before a distant, inhuman howl rattles the bars of their cage. Annie and Mitchell bounce to their feet when they see not-George being led, snarling and slobbering into their section of the tunnel. He isn't sure how they manage it, maybe they've drugged him because the long limbs do look somewhat lethargic, or maybe they've drugged themselves. Nonetheless they attach the being to a heavy-duty hinge on the wall and toy with the length of the chain.

Mitchell looks to his undead roommate briefly and a loud_ snap_ sounds inches from his ear, Mitchell jolts and whirls around to see the beast gnawing at the air in front of his face. Mitchell drops backwards and scrambles through the dust to the opposite wall, spitting obscenities simultaneously. The vampire's stomach drops at the sight of another man unlocking the door to his cage, letting it balance on it's hinges. The vampire scrambles away, "The fuck do y'think you're doing!?"

Time bomb.

The beefy man on the other end of the leash has a sadistic smile, he slackens the chain from the wall once again and the wolf lunges. The cage slams open with a crash and now he's sharing his cell with a werewolf. The rogue vampire chooses to ignore the fact that he's now close enough to smell the putrid breath of the beast and reminds himself that _George_ is still somewhere in there.

There is just enough room for him to flatten himself against the concrete and hope the chain holds. A long paw with claws extended lashes out and just catches him across the stomach and his efforts just become that much more desperate. The man barks out a laugh, "Ooh-ooh, almost gotcha there!"

Mitchell has no doubt that the man would not hesitate to slacken the leash at an insulting comment, so he doesn't reply. "Annie, if this happens," he grits through the horror because he has no idea what to expect from these people.

He is interrupted by a loud, industrial click and he's sure it's the end.

The last coherent thought to run through his head is_ I'm so sorry._

_I'm so, so sorry._

There is only a roar of laughter before they finally reel George in and lead the beast outside.

The captives are left gasping with horrible mental images of what could have been and Annie wastes no time in calling him over to grip him through the bars once again, if only to ensure that he is still whole.

When George returns, he has a vague recollection of a thick tree and the taste of chicken in his mouth. When he catches the tears in Mitchell's shirt and the faint dots of red in the fabric they reluctantly tell him of the events of the night. With the knowledge, the man shuts down, curls up on the far corner of the cage and buries his head in his knees.

"It isn't your fault, George," Annie tells him, "It was them, not you. Please don't blame yourself."

He does anyway.

Its another four days, enough time to recover before they return in the night when they are sleeping. George will admit that heightened senses are one of the few pros to lycanthropy, because it's his nose which wakes him. While too dark to see their visitor, call it instinct or maybe paranoia, George feels the intention of the threat before it presents itself. The smell comes shortly before the sound of footsteps and the hairs on his neck stand up straight. A brief click and-

_Bang._

There is a sickening sound of blood and bone spattering and a pained hiss like a tomcat whose had his tail stepped on. The sound morphs quickly into a roar of agony and then gasps for breath. The sudden noise throws him off but George composes himself and before he knows it he is pounding at the bars after the dark figure, "What the _fuck_!"

They never identify the man who pulled the trigger, but he's kind enough to light a torch for them as he leaves.

The light is dim, but he can see Mitchell slumped against the wall, shock consuming his features with the telltale glisten of blood on his chest. They catch his attention and when his eyes clear the pain visibly hits him.

"Mitchell, talk to us." pipes George in concern. There is a duel shine of silver in his irises in the pitch dark as Mitchell glances frantically up at him.

"Shoulder." Gasp. "Flesh wound."

Annie stutters as she grasps the weight of the situation, "Can you make it over here?"

The man nods and begins his trek slowly. "It's-" He takes a ragged breath that's hard on George's ears, "It's not a th-through-and-through. I can f-feel it shifting around."

George curses, the thing probably bounced around his insides like _a fucking pinball_.

When he's finally close enough, Annie is quick to bury him in sympathies and comfort while George wraps his shoulder with a strip of his sleeve. When there's nothing more he can do, he leans his friend back against the wall and Annie strokes his hair while he sucks labored breaths through gritted teeth. George sneaks him a biscuit through the bars which he accepts, ignoring the nausea which has made permanent settlement in his middle.

His last thought as he descends into the murky corners of his mind is that he's grateful for his friends.

They're left alone for a day or so, and their vampiric housemate is looking paler than he should. Then they remember his healing ability is practically non-existent without the intake of blood. When they realize this, George bears his wrist to Mitchell and even offers to make the cut for him. Mitchell refuses, but no one misses the tiny moment of hesitation or the split flicker of obsidian in his eyes.

They play their games again. Annie had a pet squirrel when she was ten, George hates the word_ 'hubby' _and Mitchell would rather be allergic to peanut butter than be allergic to chocolate.

It continues this way for a few days until Mitchell barely has the energy to lift his head and it puts a bit of a damper on their bonding time. The man hasn't moved an inch in days and the usual paleness of his skin has nearly tripled in intensity, in fact he's nearly grey and Annie's maternal instincts kick into overdrive. They attempt to sneak him more food, but he tiredly refuses each time with a wrinkle of his nose and a protective hand on his stomach. It's a battle to get him to merely nibble on a biscuit which he throws up a few hours later in a sea of clear bile.

The wretched, violent sound wakes them in the night and there is nothing they can do to help.

George is pretty sure the wound is infected. The bruises around his face have only intensified instead of swiftly fading like they normally would. They aren't sure what infection means for a vampire but they're horridly afraid that their friend might actually be dying.

George remembers Mitchell saying that a stake wasn't the only thing that could kill a vampire. It was just the only thing that could kill them quickly.

Alan arrives the next day and makes some snarky comment which Mitchell doesn't quite hear, but he registers his friends defending him and it puts a soft smile on his face. Suddenly his head snaps back and he's jerked back to reality. The man laughs dryly, "Great, you're here. Pay attention, blood-scum."

"Christ, just leave him be!" George pleads, "It's enough. He's weak, you've just had him _shot_ for fuck's sake!"

Mitchell's brows knit slightly, _-m'not weak..._

The argument is futile when he realizes they haven't even bothered to aim the gun at George this time.

The leader hums, "I don't know about that. They don't know much about your past, do they, Mitchell? Your anatomy? You should share some of your war stories sometime, show off your scars." Alan smirks as he removes his gloves, a spark of malice in his eyes which neither Mitchell nor the others trust in the slightest.

The dark-haired man is to drained for a response of proper snark, "Shut _the fuck_ up."

The man tsks, "Language, Mitchell! In front of a lady? I thought your parent's would have raised you to be a gentlemen. Though you probably don't remember much of them, do you?" Alan extends his hand toward the would and plays with the frayed edges of his shirt. "I don't imagine they'd much like what has become of you. Though I suppose you have bigger things to worry about than making mummy and daddy proud."

There is little warning before Alan presses a lithe finger into the half-healed hole in his shoulder, wriggling into the raw muscle, knuckle-deep in his flesh and Mitchell's jaw clamps shut so tightly he's afraid his teeth may crack. Alan curls his finger and the vampire emits a raw sound that is somewhere between a scream and a sob. It's a terrifying moment when his eyes fly open to reveal obliterating, opaque blackness. Annie takes a step back and George gathers her in his arms and her tears soak through his shirt into his chest while his blot the top of her head.

The sudden removal of the appendage leaves hazel irises breaking the surface of murky black and the thin man broken and gasping. "I know your kind, Mitchell." the man straightens, "It's time you paid for your crimes."

The former man gasps, "How many," a recovering grimace, "How many before me, Alan?"

Alan smirks, "It isn't _my_ body count which we should be concerned with."

It's times like these when Mitchell forgets why he so badly wants to be human.

Humans were the original monsters.


	2. Chapter 2

_Trigger warning: Moderately graphic m/m non-con and violence. _

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who took the time to review/follow/fav. You are all beautiful and have fantastic legs._

* * *

The term 'curse' is subjective.

In identical situations where one's life could be shattered, the life of another could be just beginning. Men like Herrick, for example. A life built on blood and fear, on lust and hatred. When the condition took him, he didn't wallow in self pity or despair, instead he thrived. Death was an old friend of his, although it could be said that they'd had a bit of a falling out, in the end.

And then there are men like Mitchell, who are little more than victims of circumstance. It is something he'd realized early and had promised himself long ago; he would not become a victim again.

The long hours of the night had drawn out, and neither George nor Annie could find rest in them. The incessant chirping of rats and the ashen, nearly catatonic form of their resident vampire have ensured of it. Mitchell remains slumped against the wall, as he has been for the last few days. The aura about him is bleak and George misses his restless fidgeting, no matter how irritating it could become. Annie begs for medical care, if even just for a simple fever reducer because the heat _radiates_ from him. Each time he snakes a hand through the bars test his forehead his hopes fade further. Mitchell is a vampire, he isn't supposed to resonate anywhere near_ room temperature_.

It's a foreign feeling as it has never been something he's needed to worry about much before, but too long has the wound gone untreated and George fears for his friend's life. If not for the labored rise and fall of his chest, George might have already even considered him dead. With a slack jaw and glassy, unseeing eyes, Mitchell is one hell of an actor. The uncertainty is the most frustrating thing, George thinks. Their endgame is well-concealed and he still doesn't even understand how these men are able to _see_ Annie.

She breaks down again soon and asks Mitchell what they have against him.

The vampire looses a morose chuckle, "Probably lots."

It's early in the morning when Mitchell is jerked from his slumber with a slap in the head. George snaps awake with the sound and curses himself for dozing off. When his eyes adjust, one of the nameless lackeys is crouched in front of Mitchell with a slit wrist outstretched. There isn't much fight left in him to refuse, but he still damn-well tries and inevitably fails when the appendage is shoved haphazardly between his lips. George later makes a comment on how much of a bugger it will be to go through the withdrawal again and they aren't sure if his words are deliberate or if he's just being daft. Annie smiles, pats the wolf on the back. Mitchell just looks at him with tired eyes and nods.

He heals quickly, after that. While the bullet is never removed, it's only a few days before he's back on his feet and pacing the short length of his cage despite the grinding of metal against flesh and bone inside of him.

There's one day when they seem less interested in Mitchell. It's a strange development, really. Less like their periods of random isolation, which they're sure is intentional, and more like they've just grown_ bored_ of him. One of them takes particular interest in their resident ghost, however. He's a grimy man with who Mitchell is sure George could take in a brawl, even without the menacing canine part of him. The gun, however, is back and his theory is never tested. They're really beginning to hate guns.

"What lovely face." coos the hunter, stroking the air over Annie's cheek with a pale hand. "Pity you aren't more tangible. I'd fuck you for days."

Neither George nor Mitchell will have any of that.

"You watch your fucking mouth." grits the vampire.

"I don't think you're in much of a position to be delivering orders, mate." he chuckles and places a hand on his crotch, pressing himself into the bars. "Why don't you do something useful with that pretty mouth of yours?"

There are three distinct grunts of disgust, "Is that how you lot earn your keep around here?"

The larger mans brows knit in anger, "When's the last time someone put you in your place, pup?"

"Let him go, Eric." A Scottish accent intervenes suddenly and Alan is leaning casually against the door-sill. "You'll have your chance, I promise."

The thug exhales in defeat and even as he retreats from their cell George struggles not to lunge at him. Sure, it would surely only result in his death but he'd be happy with a few good punches to the throat first.

The door to Mitchell's side clings open and Alan crouches in front of the wary vampire, "Prepare yourself, Dracula." A hand reaches out to stroke Mitchell's dark locks in an almost loving manner, "I'm a fair man. I won't deny any of them when they ask for you." There's a flicker of horrified understanding in Mitchell's eyes before the Scot turns on his heel and makes for the exit, "My dogs are hungry. I can only keep them leashed for so long."

The door slams behind him.

When George's time of the month rolls around again they lead him outside of the tunnel with a heavy chain and a chicken on a stick. Just like a dog being let outside to do it's _fucking_ business. The mental image of a still-human George with floppy ears, a long, flat tongue, glasses and a chew toy pops into Mitchell's brain and he laughs. At first, it's the most beautiful sound Annie has heard but it isn't long before he's bent over, clutching at his sides in near hysteria. Annie can only look on and repeat his name gently in an attempt to reel him back to reality.

When George returns this time, they have no stories of how he almost mauled someone but there's a distinct taste of blood in his mouth which makes him wonder.

The three are dead in slumber the next night when the door to Mitchell's cage clings open quietly. A sharp _thwack_, and the vampire releases an instinctual cry as a heel jostles the improperly healed wound in his shoulder. When he recovers, it's Alan who is standing over him. Five or six nameless lackeys have decided to join in while the others eye him silently. Mitchell isn't sure which he hates worse.

Through the kicks and punches, he shoots George a warning glare and the wolf keeps his mouth shut.

Alan barks an order and the others leave to join their comrades in the corner. Lust and fear clouds their eyes as they look on in anticipation, none of them daring to challenge their leader. The pack leader always gets the first helping. Mitchell remembers overhearing that on the animal channel. They're the lions closing in for the feast and he's the fucking _gazelle with a broken leg._

Collecting himself and fueled by adrenalin, he lashes out with his leg and a wet crunch tells him it's a direct hit. Alan withdraws, growling in rage through his bloodied nose and there's a look in his eyes which clearly states he will _not_ be humiliated in front of his men. Before Mitchell can move to a defensive position, a foot slams down on his wounded shoulder and grinds him into the earth. An agonized moan slips from his lips and for a moment, his vision goes black. The hunter lets loose a wet snort, blood and spray flying onto Mitchell's clothes. The larger man straddles him and smirks as he grinds his hardness into Mitchell's groin.

The intention is again made clear, and Mitchell is terrified.

"Get offa me!" he snarls in a panic and bucks his hips. His shoulder aches but he effectively unsaddles the man and before he can compose, a boot catches him in the face and he's sprawled on the ground with stars dancing before his eyes. Mitchell chokes down a groan as Alan slams him into the cold dirt, straddling him once more. Hot breath swelters around his ear as Alan leans in, a hot tongue swirling around his ear and Mitchell groans in disgust. The vampire's eyes dart to meet his friends', begging for strength but their reserves are running dry.

"He believes in you, you know. Even now." the hunter addresses Annie and George casually through the bars. "Tell him he's going to be okay."

There's a moment of silence and Mitchell twists his neck to see a tear-addled George shooting the coldest glare he's ever seen. Annie takes a shuddering breath, "W-we're gonna find a way out of this, Mitchell. Hang on just a bit long-"

"No. _Tell him_."

George clears his throat, "You'll be fine, Mitchell. You'll be fucking _fine_." He spits, sheer determination in his voice.

Alan smirks, and nods.

Things are made clear. They will never be fine.

There is a dark flash and Mitchell panics, wondering if this is actually the end. Instead, the blade slices through his shirt with the echo of pain and cool metal. It isn't deep, but it's invasive and the vampire squirms relentlessly while spitting every curse word he's heard in his life. He's been around for a while, so he has a colorful vocabulary.

Through the distraction, the telltale sound of a zipper being undone reaches his ears and the full weight of the situation hits him.

"Wait." he manages, wincing at the shakiness of his own voice, "Don't make them watch."

The man snickers, and continues with his business. An animal-like panic sets over him and, with renewed energy; he bucks and sends the man careening into the concrete wall beside them. There is a tense moment of silence in which Mitchell's mind clears and tells him what an idiot he is for making the situation worse for himself. Blood drips from a welt on the Alan's temple as he looks down at a frozen Mitchell through bloodshot eyes.

A cry of rage and Alan mercilessly shoves his legs up against his chest and rams inside.

A strangled scream he never knew he was capable of making rips from the his throat and he arches back. He doesn't notice Annie's horrified cry which quickly turns into bouts of hysterical sobbing, nor does he notice the paleness of George's face just before he turns to vomit. His mind has become nothing more than a swirling mass of color and white noise.

The initial pain of the entrance is soothed for a brief second, and then brought back with equal ferocity. With this, a rhythm is set and with each time his body jerks back with the force, he gasps harder and harder for air which he can't seem to get enough of. Color splashes into the endless sea of black and is followed by tiny white dots which choose to appear and disappear in an irritating strobe before his eyes.

"You are_ nothing_." The man above him grits out. Each word is accentuated with a jolt which gets cumulatively more violent, "A _worthless. Fucking. Parasite."_

The larger man's endurance would be respectable, but given the circumstances it's only made things worse. The pace quickens suddenly, and they're practically vibrating. Eventually, a singing heat floods into Mitchell's body, and Alan collapses on top of him. Both parties lay panting and motionless, each for very different reasons. The bastard doesn't even have the decency to remove himself immediately and Mitchell finds himself squirming weakly against him. After what feels like hours, the man slides out with a trail of blood and seed following after.

Alan chuckles in-between breaths and slaps Mitchell briskly on the flank. His abdominal muscles contract in painful spasms, continuing their rejection of the previous invasion. Every other shaking muscle needs no physical reason. As the man turns to leave, he addresses the others huddled in the corner. Wide, lustful eyes wait expectantly while others zip themselves back into their pants. Alan smirks, "Have at it, boys."

The second time is similar to the first, he just keeps quieter. The same cannot be said for Annie and George.

The third man forces him to hold eye contact. There's only an initial hiss of pain on his part and then he shuts down. His body jerks violently with the force because it's anything but gentle and he absently watches the man pulse above him, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. When he pulls out, just enough consciousness reaches the veteran's hazy brain to lash out with his boot and catch his assaulter right in his bloodied, exposed manhood. The larger man doubles over with a choked whine and collapses to his knees. George releases a broken laugh and it's the best thing he's heard all night.

They manipulate his unresponsive body into different positions now and again. They abuse his mouth, too and for once, he's thankful for his vampiric canines.

Mitchell is mostly quiet now, and he knows prevention isn't an option anymore. It doesn't mean he doesn't make it as difficult for them as possible. Finally, wearily he turns his head to see his horrified friends in his periphery. George looks as if he's vomited several times now and he really wishes they would just _look away_.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, the vampire is again unprepared as another member slides into him. Bloodshot eyes slide open and to the right and Mitchell finds himself staring absently at George, who holds the gaze. It's one of the hardest things George's ever done, to focus only on the man's eyes and not on what is being done to his body. A particularly brutal thrust has Mitchell's body jolting and he clamps his eyes shut tightly against the pain. A gloved hand reaches for his friends, clawing blindly into the dirt and as his body is pushed closer and closer to the bars dividing him before he feels a cool, ringed palm tightly closing around his fingers.

He knows there is more than one person inside him at one point, more than two. It is a game to them and he's pretty sure he hears someone taking bets. There's a point where it becomes too much for him to bear and he squeezes so tightly he's sure he hears ethereal bones cracking.

The last man eventually has his go and just like that, they leave.

_Just like fucking that._

No one moves, no one speaks. At least not for a great while. The first movement he's makes is to shakily pull his pants back over his hips, and it's a conscious effort for him to slide his hand from Annie's cool, comforting fingers. Dark eyes are distant and he seems to forget his friends in the next cage because he jumps when she tentatively, tearily calls his name. They grapple for his attention as anything would be better than the catatonic state he's entered into. They don't give up, even when their voices turn hoarse and they run out of tears. It's several hours before the Irishman makes any sort of movement. It's a relief, even though it's just for him to vomit in the corner.

Annie tries once more as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Mitchell, please." There's a tense moment when three pairs of eyes, each filled with tears, exchange glances when one doesn't seem to even recognize the other two. Annie wants so badly to gather him in her arms, to ask if he's okay even if it's truly the stupidest thing she could ever think to ask at the moment. The man stares at them before a glaze falls over his eyes and he slips into a daze that no amount of beckoning can bring him out of.

Their captors opt to take Mitchell to another, separate room for his tormenting after that. None of them are quite sure why, but they realize that if there's something worse than having to watch, it's not. George and Annie see barely an hour of their vampire over the course of the day and each time he returns, it's a greater and greater battle for him to sit himself upright again. They call to him frantically each time, just to ensure he's alive and he responds each time with a grunt that becomes harder and harder to hear.

Later in the day, he gives up and just lets his body sag into the dirt.

The absence of conversation is unnerving, and each time his mind begins to wander he's brought back to the worst moments of his life, which coincidentally have all occurred within the past week and a half. He's brought to the question of who has been forced to suffer the greater torture and because he isn't keen on dwelling on these things, George must rely on his other senses to keep him occupied. There is little to look at in the dingy mine, a lapse in visitors to exchange sarcasm with and nothing but stale bread to eat so his nose becomes his sole pastime.

There are three distinct smells which he has become accustomed to throughout his recent life. Annie radiates honey and chamomile, if a tiny bit musty which is completely understandable given her situation. Mitchell of cigarettes, musk and the faintest hint of iron. They're the smells which comfort him and remind him of home, which are keeping him sane and the smells that are being tainted with the overwhelming stench of blood, cum and overused cologne.

George has always been slightly jealous of their scents, because all he really smells like is shampoo and dog.


	3. Chapter 3

There were times when George would be forced to work double shifts at the hospital, back when reality was tangible and life was better than he'd thought it to be. A bad accident or a nasty flu season would have him up and on his feet with barely a moment's rest and hardly enough time to find himself some sort of sustenance. He well remembered when the adrenalin wore off, and he'd run into Mitchell to complain about how he was fucking _starving. _George knows it's a figure of speech, he knows he knew no better but still he's slightly disgusted at how lightly he took the word. Especially when Mitchell is turning to a trembling, pale mass of skin and bone right before his very eyes.

Annie scoots closer to him, tracks of self-applying, ethereal mascara painted on her cheeks. It's funny, George thinks. Annie is, really, the one who deserves their captivity the least. Her grand, unfaltering spirit had no place somewhere so dark and horrific. She's essentially the only thing that keeps his soul from shattering completely and keeps him hovering over severely fucked up, instead.

The next morning, George asks why they won't let the werewolf share in some of the beating. The only response he gets is a small shake of the vampire's head and a muttered excuse that it's his vendetta and George's body wouldn't be able to take what they dished out. The optimistic side of George rejoices in the first sign of life his friend has shown since..._ it_ happened. In the silence that follows, the memory of him hesitantly explaining the means of his recruitment all those years ago back when they first became housemates. George remembers how Mitchell told him of his men, who Herrick had threatened to kill if Mitchell did not comply. It makes George wonder whether his attitude is driven by selfishness or habit.

It makes him wonder how much of that man will be left in the end.

Mitchell is most vocal at night, and it's not something George is thankful for because it isn't the soul-bearing, closure and venting type of vocal that would be healthy in the situation because that would be too easy. The man mumbles in his sleep, claws at his shoulder and the wound, arches back _no_ and_ get out of me._

The men return with malice in their eyes and Mitchell can only shut his own wearily, unwilling and unable to defend himself. Through the cotton in his ears, he vaguely hears George making a fuss. Something about _you'll kill him_ and it doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world. They comply, surprisingly, and take George into the other part of the tunnel. The lycanthrope returns a mere twenty minutes later with little more than a bloody nose, a few welts and a busted lip and there is a tiny part of Mitchell which resents him for it. George really considers it genocide because what else could he call it? At times, he wonders if any of these men have a personal grudge against Mitchell, but he really doubts it because none of them seem to have a particular malice about them. They're all equally horrible.

There isn't much to say but it doesn't stop the silence from being uncomfortable. Mitchell isn't much for conversation anymore, so purely in the sense of colloquy his absences don't make much of a difference. Annie opens her mouth to speak for the first time in hours and freezes at the faint sound of something dragging through the dirt which they've become so accustomed to.

They toss the vampire unceremoniously back into his cell but there's something different about him this time. There are no outward signs of trauma, not even a smudge of blood or worse. "Mitchell?" George inquires worriedly as half-lidded eyes flutter, "What have you done to him?"

"George." Alan coos, "You're such a smart fellow. It's been a long while, I'd have suspected you'd have wrung out the details by now." he sighs, pulling up the sleeve of Mitchell's flannel to reveal a small smear of blood in the crook of his arm. "Or at least concluded that the details really don't matter."

"You've drugged him." deadpans George in disbelief. Mitchell's eyes slide open with a choked gasp and Annie releases a horrified cry at the thick, milky film which dictates the man's wandering irises.

"Oi, the observant one." at the expected silence, he continues. "I only wanted to show off my impressive collection of crucifixes. Bit of a morbid sight, really. But oi, it really ties the room together. If Dracula's sight ever returns to him, I'm sure he'll give you some details. I doubt he'll ever be going in for mass again."

"George what do we do?"

"Wait it out, if mister fucking sarcasm can shut up for two bloody seconds."

There's the briefest moment where Alan actually looks hurt by the comment.

It's the most gratifying moment George has experienced in weeks.

But Alan recovers quickly, but it's the darker side of him that emerges."One more word, dog," he seethes, "I feed your boy to mine again. Are we clear on that?"

George sends his most heated glare which really isn't all that threatening when Mitchell gives a mighty jolt, heaving suddenly for breath as a thin layer of foam lines his lips. Alan eyes the younger-looking man and smiles maliciously. As the hunter ventures down the tunnel, the door slams angrily behind him.

Annie wastes no time and grips the man's shirt through the bars, "Mitchell! Mitchell, stay with us."

The vampire's eyes roll to find the source of the sound and he gags. Bile burns a scorching path up his throat and, in a moment of clarity, he turns his head to heave into the corner. Another small spark of pain in his belly and he can feel it growing; increasing slowly in ferocity. Against it, his brows knit and suddenly he cannot get enough air. Slowly he begins to pant, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips before he has a chance to stop it as curls into fetal position to ride out the spasms that wrack his pale body.

"Mitchell, look at me. Focus on me!"

That much registers in his hazy brain, and his milky eyes wander up to settle on the dark woman's horrified face. It's comforting, but nothing so beautiful can last these days as Annie's smooth, beautiful face shrivels suddenly into something she'd never be. It isn't a graceful aging, as Mitchell knows she'd have had. Instead, it's abrupt and, frankly, it's horrifying. Sunken eyes gaze at him with something similar to accusation and resentment which, honestly, is worse than the worn crevasses that have been carved into her translucent skin.

A sharp thump as an eyeball of Annie's drops to the concrete and rolls to a stop, gazing up at him with the same hatred as it had when it had been attached. It's iris holds none of the depth, beauty or hope he'd become accustomed to a seeing in the woman. A slow line of blood trickles from his nose as glassy, half lidded eyes search for answers and George is brought back to the same expression he wore on the gurney rushing through the hospital with a wooden stake in his chest. A gloved hand weakly clasps his sleeve as Mitchell attempts to lift his head, only succeeding in it bobbing listlessly as the effort becomes too much but determination fights the good fight.

Mitchell's grip tightens when George's skin begins melting off of his face as his bones support a sagging suit like a blanket being draped over a chair.

"Mitchell, shit. Mitchell, can you hear me?" His vaguely registers a voice_- friendly,_ he thinks. A hand touches his arm. Mitchell jerks away instinctively and stares in horror, transfixed by the blurred images of his friends which dissolve washes of color moments later.

The drug wears off, eventually. _Eventually_ is stressed because their threshold has grown considerably and it seems all and none of what they have here is time. Mitchell can hear a conversation, knows but doesn't feel like it's about him. It's about someone else, because that didn't happen to him. No, he didn't get shot and beaten. He didn't get molested or drugged. He hadn't been raped. More than once. None of that happened. It's just the shaking, it's all over and violent. He can't explain that. His brain doesn't seem to want to form coherent thoughts right now.

Night comes swiftly in a whisper, and their salvation comes with it.

It is brought by two tall men they've never seen before and they aren't sure whether it's the end or their chance at a new beginning. One of the men towers over even George while both have impressive builds and given different circumstances George is sure that Annie would be a giggling, swooning mess.

With so much time dedicated to nothing these past months, his mind has learned to snag any chance of interesting thought so when they speak, their accents startle George a bit and he wonders what they're doing so far outside the states. They talk some business of demons and burning bones and George is taken aback a little. The moment when supernatural became something real, and tangible was not something he could pinpoint but this could be a cornerstone, he supposes because he never believed in angels or demons up until this point. A place in the back of his mind tells him the two are bat-shit crazy but George doesn't give it much thought because_ they're_ the ones outside the cage and here he sits with a ghost and a vampire. Amongst themselves, there's a brief debate of Mitchell's situation _because_ he's a fucking vampire and George is really beginning to hate Mitchell's condition. The man doesn't dare intervene, however because he dare not jeopardize their chance at finally leaving this hellhole.

Annie seems to feel the same, and Mitchell hasn't even noticed their presence.

George wonders if it's a form of psychological torture they've cooked up, to bring up their hopes only to have it all be a set-up. The shorter man looks at him briefly and George instantly knows it isn't the case, because his eyes carry the same weight as Mitchell's.

The tall one convinces the other, because hell if Mitchell will be in any condition to hurt anyone if they're set free and George silently deflates with such intense relief. Skilled hands are suddenly working the locks as the deep-voiced blonde gently warns not to make him regret his decision. There's a shock in his system that prevents either of them from delivering anything more than a nod.

The men help them find their way out of the tunnel, and George isn't sure what he's expected because freedom doesn't taste as good as it should.

The day they are rescued is not as triumphant as they'd imagined it to be.

They return home to find a small yellow envelop placed neatly on their doorstep.

_There's nowhere we can't find you._

They dub it a wise decision to leave their home quickly.

It's a harder thing to do than Annie anticipated as she watches the tiny pink house fade into the distance behind them.

Freedom doesn't taste as good as it should because they haven't taken their freedom back, yet.


End file.
